


Up Shit Creek

by Lobelia321



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy does not like Karl.  Yet he's stuck with him, in a boat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up Shit Creek

**Author's Note:**

> I issued a challenge to anyone wanting to pair Billy and Karl and ended up doing it myself as well. Just couldn't resist!

Title: Up Shit Creek

Part:

Author: Lobelia; lobelia40@yahoo.com

Website: http://blithesea.net/lobelia/

Pairing: Billy Boyd / Karl Urban

Rating: NC-17, for rude sex and rude language

Spoilers: None

Warnings/Content: RPS.

Archive: Closer than Brothers. My niche. Anyone else, please just ask.

Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, one line, one word even!

Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen. Quotation taken from William Shakespeare, _The Tragedy of Julius Caesar_.

Summary: Billy does not like Karl. Yet he's stuck with him, in a boat.

Author's Notes: I issued a challenge to anyone wanting to pair Billy and Karl and ended up doing it myself as well. Just couldn't resist!

Dedication: This one's for Brenda because she took up the challenge within minutes! And because without her, I wouldn't even know who Karl is. And what would life be without Karl? There's a tiny homage to the RSF in here as well, that "Rolling Smut Factory of Epic Proportions", *mwah*.

Thanks and kisses to: Tamaranth for bouncing ideas and bursting the dam when I got stuck! And to Gabby Hope, sweetest beta imaginable.

Length: c. 38 pages in Word.

Accompanying pics: [ Here.](http://blithesea.net/lobelia/pics.html)

\--------------

Billy did not like Karl Urban. Yet somehow he had got himself into a situation where he was stuck with Karl Urban, alone, in a small boat, on a large river, without a paddle.

Well, to be precise, it was more of a fiord than a river, one of the many inlets meandering their way through the labyrinthine waterways of Marlborough Sounds on the South Island of New Zealand. And it was not true that they didn't have any paddle left at all. They did still have one oar but the other one had, indeed, been lost. It was Billy's fault that it had been lost but he hadn't said 'sorry'. Instead, he sat in the boat, fuming silently and thinking uncharitable thoughts about Karl.

Billy did not want to be stuck on this river without a paddle, but most of all, he did not want to be stuck on this river with Karl. He wanted to be on this river with Dom. That had been Billy's plan: to go boating on Saturday afternoon with Dom. That had been Billy's plan for weeks. And then stupid old Dom had to go and scupper this plan. Stupid old Dom had to let himself be lured away from boating with Billy by the prospect of adventure sports.

Only the day before, only last evening, in fact only eighteen hours earlier, Billy had been standing around with Dom, laughing and talking about their plan to go boating. How they would take the ten o'clock ferry across Cook Strait down to Picton on the South Island. How they would get the bus from Picton to the boat-rental place in the Sounds. How much beer they would need to take along, and whether they would need to pack any mosquito spray. How they would bring their binoculars because, apparently, you could sometimes spot dolphins in Marlborough Sounds, and even orca whales.

Then stupid Orli had appeared out of nowhere.

"Guess what, guess what, guess what!" Orli had shouted. "One of the guys on my parachuting programme has pulled out, he can't make it for tomorrow, and we've got a spare place, Dom, can you come? Can you come? Can you come?"

"Parachuting!" Dom had yelled. "Yes, of course! Of course! Of..." And then, to give him his due, he had stopped short and looked at Billy.

"What? What? What?" That had been Orli again who seemed to have made a habit of saying everything in triplicate.

"Billy and I arranged to go boating," explained Dom. "But, Billy..." And he had looked at Billy with an expression of guilt and hope and supplication on his face.

Billy felt a stab of disappointment. He noted the guilt on Dom's face, the hope, the supplication, but most of all he noted the utmost readiness with which Dom was prepared to drop Billy's boating plan and take up a more exciting venture at the drop of a hat.

"Oh, Billy! Billy! Billy!" Orli had, annoyingly, cried. "Take someone else with you! This parachute thing, it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

"Yes, Billy, that's a great idea!" Dom had chimed in, much too enthusiastically for Billy's liking. "Why don't you take someone else?"

But Billy didn't want to take someone else. Billy didn't want just to go boating. Billy wanted to go boating with Dom. Dom evidently thought that it could make no conceivable difference whether Billy went boating with Dom or with the Queen of England or, indeed, with Karl Urban.

But it did make a difference to Billy. When Dom spied Karl in the distance and started shouting and waving, Billy felt a wave of resentment rise in his throat like bile.

"There's Karl!" Dom cried, oblivious. "He knows all about New Zealand rivers and boats and what not. He'll be great to have along! Much better than me!"

No. Wrong. Karl was certainly _not_ better to have along than Dom. Billy did not want to go boating without Dom, and he most certainly did not want to go boating with Karl. But too late. Before Billy could say 'peep', Karl was already there.

In fact, Karl was already there much too often. Wherever Billy went these days, he seemed to have Karl underfoot. For some reason, the guy glommed onto him like a burr. He was always about, always sidling up to Billy, putting a hand on Billy's shoulder, following Billy into make-up, coming up to Billy, coming onto Billy. This, as such, wouldn't matter much in itself. This, as such, wasn't enough to explain why Billy found Karl so intensely, so phenomenally irritating.

One reason for Billy's irritation was that Karl was such a crashing bore. He was tedium on legs. He hung around, trailing after Billy, laughing readily enough at all of Billy's jokes, even the tritest, lamest jokes, but that was because he himself was too dull to make any jokes of his own. Billy couldn't remember laughing once at anything Karl had said. Ever.

And not only was Karl a crashing bore, he was also an arrogant prig into the bargain. He was always going on about his precious New Zealand in the most high-minded fashion, boring the pants off anyone who cared to listen about how fabulous New Zealand was and how New Zealand was the first nation in the world to give women the vote and how wonderfully amazing the Treaty of Waitangi was and how pristine the mountains were and how lush the forests and how blah the fucking blah-de-blah blah. It wasn't even as if Billy disagreed. Billy loved the New Zealand mountains and the forests and everything about New Zealand. He just didn't want to listen to Karl droning on and on and fucking on about it.

And then there was that cliquish way in which Karl always hung out with that _Xena_ crowd, all those Jays and Lawrences and Stephens and Martons, who could remember all their bloody names, half of them encased in orc-clobber all day long, anyway. Standing in a cluster, slapping each other on the back, doubling up with laughter, making insider jokes. It was just too tedious for words.

Those were the reasons why Billy didn't like Karl. Karl the bore. Karl the prig. Karl the hobnobber. And if that wasn't enough there was something else, too. Something less easy to pinpoint. Something much less easy to admit to. It was the way Karl was always staring at Billy.

When he wasn't sidling up to Billy, Karl was staring at Billy. Staring at Billy across rooms and sets and crowded pubs. Really, it was pissing Billy off in a major way. It got to the point where Billy just had to _feel_ those eyes on his and he'd become all tongue-tied with irritation. Billy did not like to be tongue-tied. Billy liked to be easy-going and witty, he liked to joke and chat and feel relaxed. When Karl was staring at him, Billy could only be tongue-tied and silent and pissed off as hell.

And woe betide if he ever dared look back into those eyes of Karl's. Well, it was really too stupid. It wasn't as if Billy normally cared a fig about his colleagues' eyes. Fuck, Billy normally didn't even notice his colleagues' eyes. Billy didn't give a rat's fart about the colour or shape of blokes' eyes. Well, except for Dom's eyes, perhaps, but that was different.

But Billy most definitely did not give a rat's fart about Karl's eyes. Karl fucking Urban's dark-brown, deep-brown, sinfully-brown, almond-shaped, sloe-shaped, fuck-shaped eyes.

All of these were hardly the sorts of reason that you could enumerate when faced with a supplicating Dom on the one side, a triplicating Orli on the other side, and a delightedly beaming Karl in the middle. These were reasons Billy could hardly voice to himself, let alone to anyone else. They were irrational, stupid, festering reasons.

So what could Billy say? Only one thing, of course: "Yes, fine." Smile, nod, shrug. Look with regret at Dom's relieved smile, submit to Dom's grateful hug. Look with dismay at Karl's expression. Not quite being able to gauge that expression because unable to look straight into his eyes.

And that's why Billy was stuck on this river. In this boat. With this Karl. Without a paddle. And alone. Alone without Dom. Alone with Karl fucking Urban.

\-----------

The Saturday had started badly, and it had then proceeded to get worse, increment by increment, until it got to the point where they were on the river without the paddle.

First thing in the morning, there had been Dom, hopping about the house with an insanely gleeful grin on his face and being generally insufferable. Billy and Karl, going boating? Fabulous idea. Dom not there? Karl was a fantastic substitute. Billy upset? No way, Karl was such a great bloke, so knowledgeable about New Zealand, much better company than Dom.

That was Dom's conviction, at any rate. Billy just glowered. Dom didn't notice. He was too busy putting on his combat trousers and looking at himself in the mirror with his sunglasses on, affecting paratrooper poses.

Next there was the ferry trip over to Picton. That was when the weather did one of its infernal turn-abouts. It was getting cooler and cooler. In fact, it was bloody freezing. Billy shivered in his short-sleeved cotton shirt. He took himself, his six-pack and his knapsack into the cabin and stared morosely at the choppy crests on the waves out in the Strait. To take his mind off the boating fiasco, he opened the paperback he'd brought with him. _Julius Caesar_. Shakespeare. Nice and elevated.

'If you know that I do fawn on men and hug them hard,' Billy read. Those weren't even Caesar's lines; they were Cassius's lines. But somehow, the lines conjured up Caesar, anyway. They conjured up images of Karl, dressed up as Caesar in one of those old _Xena_ episodes. Absurd. Absolutely absurd. Absurd to think of Karl hugging men hard. And Karl looked absurd in those ridiculous Caesar robes. Well, not absurd maybe; he actually cut rather a fine figure in those robes. Even Billy had to concede that. And he delivered those Caesarean lines with a certain grand panache. That was because he had lines, of course. He had a script. Without a script, the guy was at a complete loss for words. Without a script, Karl could barely manage to string two sentences of any interest together. Without a script, Karl was plain Mr Dullsville.

By the time, Billy was off the ferry and on the bus to the boating place, he had pulled himself together somewhat. He told himself not to be stupid, not to give in to base impulses, to put a cheerful face on the inevitable and to be nice and friendly to Karl. Just that: nice and friendly. It wasn't Karl's fault that he wasn't Dom. Not everyone could be as funny and easy-going as Dom. Billy practised a friendly, genial expression, grinning at himself in the reflection of the bus window.

Billy's friendly, genial expression froze on his face when he first caught sight of Karl, standing on the jetty, next to the boat-rental hut. Karl was decked out in full outdoors kit. He was wearing a fleecy zippered and hooded brick-coloured windcheater, and on top of that some beige waterproof jacket-thing with around eight thousand pockets and velcro strips. On his head, he sported a sturdy baseball cap, and on his feet, he sported sturdy wellington-type boots, and at his feet, he had an enormous canvas bag, stuffed to the brim with-- well, with stuff of one description or another. A ziplock bag of apples poked out at one end, and a sports water bottle poked out at the other end. And, most dreadful of all, strapped onto the top of this monster tote was a fishing rod. Next to the bag stood a plastic bucket, and in the plastic bucket, there was a knife, some fishing tackle and an evil-smelling pot of squirming worms.

Shit, it looked as if Billy was not only going to be treated to tedious pronouncements on New Zealand's scenery but also to endless rantings about fucking fish and bait and tackle. Instead of the nice touristic outing with fellow Brit Dom, this looked as if it was going to turn into a serious wildlife expedition with Kiwi expert Karl. Billy felt distinctly underdressed in his cotton shirt, with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, his six-pack in hand and his paperback stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. Karl, on the other hand, looked like a first-class berk.

In effect, Billy's carefully-planned little trip was being hi-jacked by the outdoorsman from hell.

"Hi," said Karl.

Innocuous enough. Friendly enough. But Billy's genial expression had long gone the way of his cheerful resolutions. He stomped up onto the jetty and said shortly, "I didn't know we were going to be fishing."

If Karl was offended by the rude tone, he didn't let on.

"Oh," he said. "But that's what you do in Marlborough Sounds. Well, unless you're a complete spinner."

"A what?" said Billy.

"Oh, just a tourist, a sightseer," said Karl.

"Hmph," snorted Billy. He felt so annoyed by the sight of Karl in his fishing gear, he could barely contain himself. If there was one thing that was worse than a crashing bore, it was a crashing fishing bore. 'Stay calm, stay calm,' Billy told himself. 'Take a deep breath.' So he did, took a deep breath, stomped to the end of the jetty and stared out at the river. He didn't turn around as Karl started heaving all his clutter in, a lot of clutter, accompanied by a lot of fussing and weight-shifting, to judge by the way the boat was creaking and knocking against the pier.

Billy spent the next few minutes staring into the water, wishing Dom were there. Dom would just laugh, crack open a beer, dip his fingers in the river, make a joke, ruffle Billy's hair, fight with Billy over the right to go first on the oars. Billy rubbed his chilly forearms.

Finally, the fussing and creaking and weight-shifting seemed to come to a natural end. Karl's stuff was loaded into the boat. The fishing rod poked out over the side. Karl stood next to the boat, looking over at Billy.

Not saying anything, just staring at Billy. Doing that staring thing again. Making Billy feel tongue-tied and stupid. Making Billy stalk back to the boat on unsteady feet.

Not saying anything himself, Billy bent down, put his hand on the gunwale and clambered in. There was an alarming rocking motion because Karl got in at the same time; they both straightened up, and then they collided with each other in the middle of the boat. The boat rocked, Billy held on to something, that something was Karl. Both Billy and Karl froze in the middle of the boat.

"Sorry, sorry," said Karl and lurched backwards. This just made the boat rock more which made them fall into each other's arms yet again.

"Sorry," Karl repeated. Billy snatched his hands away. Karl took his hands off Billy's forearms. He had gone bright red but Billy didn't want to look at Karl for any length of time. He didn't want to think about Karl falling into his arms or about Karl going bright red. He didn't want to think or know about any of that. He just wanted to sit in the fucking boat and have a nice little row.

That was all.

None of this fussing and fishing and falling against each other.

By the time, Billy was ensconced on the middle bench, his ears were burning. He didn't know why his ears should be burning. They were probably burning with irritation. The spots where Karl's hands had touched Billy's bare forearms were burning, too. It was too, too stupid.

Without asking Karl who should go first, Billy grabbed the oars and manoeuvred them into the correct position in the rowlocks. In the process, he nearly knocked Karl over the head with one of the oars but Karl said nothing about it, and Billy said nothing about it, and the silence was worse than anything. The silence filled Billy with such inner rage that he had to bite his lower lip. There'd have been no silence with Dom. There'd have been a lot of good-natured banter and ragging and laughing and probably a good portion of rowing jokes.

Billy was sure that at the back of his mind he had stored at least a dozen or so good rowing jokes but with Karl facing him, he felt tongue-tied, and he couldn't think of a single one of them. Come to think of it, that was probably just as well. Around two-thirds of Billy's rowing jokes involved some form of sexual innuendo. And Billy did not want to trade sexual innuendo with Karl. Absolutely not.

Billy and Karl were still silent when Billy finally managed to get the oars into position. They were also still silent when Billy first dipped the oars into the water. The boat moved a few feet, then stopped. Billy lifted one of the oars and pushed it at the jetty. The boat swivelled on its axis but didn't leave the pier.

Karl cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Sorry. You need to cast off the painter."

"The what?" Billy said.

"You know," said Karl and gestured towards the back of the boat. Billy looked and saw a metal ring with a thick rope attached to it. The other end of the rope was wound around a pole on the jetty.

"Oh," Billy said. His ears were burning again. Karl seemed bent on humiliating him. Karl seemed bent on making Billy feel tongue-tied and foolish and irritated beyond reason. Stupid. This would not have happened if Dom had been there. Sure, Billy wouldn't have known about the rope, oh sorry, the _painter_. But Dom would have been just as clueless. They would have discovered that they were still tethered to the shore and fallen about the boat laughing. There would not have been this silence and this tongue-tied awkwardness.

Billy bent across, causing the boat to wobble, and unfastened the rope from its pole. He coiled the ends into the bottom of the boat, and then he pushed the boat off the jetty with the oar. This time it moved off slowly.

Billy started to row. It had been a while since he'd been on a boat and the position of the oars seemed a bit unfamiliar. And then Karl piped up again and said, "You're rowing the Italian way. Did you mean to do that?"

"What? The what?" snapped Billy.

"I mean," said Karl and cleared his throat again. "The Italians, they row facing forward. We usually row facing aft."

'I'll aft you in a minute,' whispered Billy under his breath.

"Sorry?" said Karl.

"Nothing," said Billy and proceeded to turn himself around on the bench, facing away from Karl, facing the back of the boat. In doing so, he nearly lost one of the oars, and Karl had to lean forwards and grab it.

"Here, I'll show you," said Karl. There was more rocking, and suddenly Karl was directly behind him. Billy could feel Karl's breath against his nape. It made his hairs stand on end. Karl reached around Billy and adjusted Billy's hands on the oars. He was practically encircling Billy in his arms from behind. Fuck, the guy had a nerve. Billy wanted to jerk his hands away. He wanted to tell Karl to piss off and to stop being such a know-it-all. Instead, he submitted to being encircled and adjusted and breathed on, and the whole time his heart was beating like mad.

This was really getting too fucking ridiculous.

Billy didn't know why his heart was beating like mad. His heart didn't usually beat like mad when guys were around. Billy's heart beat for girls, not for boys. And it certainly didn't beat for stupid, know-it-all Karl.

Except it did. It was still thumping in his chest even after Karl had moved back to his own bench. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Luckily, Billy did not need to look at Karl any longer. Karl was sitting behind him, in the bow of the boat, and all Billy could see was the long, wandering shoreline and the tall trees on the surrounding hills and the expanse of river, winding its way between the hills and shimmering dully under the overcast sky.

At least, it was quite good to be rowing. It was good to feel the muscles pull in his shoulders and stomach and stretch along his back, to slide back and forth, plying the oars, to feel the boat shudder beneath him and hear the waves lapping at its sides. Nothing but sky above, nothing but water all around, nothing but Karl behind him.

Karl. Somehow Billy knew that Karl wasn't facing forwards. Karl wasn't looking at the river and the shoreline ahead. Karl was facing backwards and looking at Billy. Billy could practically _feel_ Karl's eyes on his back. What was more, Karl seemed to have been emboldened by being able to see only Billy's back, not his face. Because Karl was starting to talk, and God, was he boring.

Billy listened with only half an ear. Karl was going on about the sounds, about the water levels of the different rivers, about the differences in water level between summer and winter, blah blah blah.

"I go fishing quite a bit in Buller River," Karl was saying. "That's not far from this area. That's a great river for trout, New Zealand trout. I do quite a bit of fly fishing there. Of course, with the trout you'd want mainly weighted nymphs along, that's the only type of fly they'll go for, really. The Bead Head's a good one to use, or the Hare and Copper."

And this was how it went on and on; Jesus, how was it possible for one guy to be such a yawning bore? It was unbelievable. As if anybody could possibly give a flying fart, a flying bloody Bead's Head, about the stupid bloody details of fishing in bloody Buller River.

"This is, of course, a good time to come to this area," droned Karl. "It's between Christmas and February that the place is packed, packed to the gills with tourists. This is nice now, nice and quiet. You could row about here all day and you might never see a soul. There are some nice secluded sandy beaches here. There's one coming up behind the next headland, in fact. We could stop there, have a bite. Part of this area is for mussel farms. Salmon farms, too. You get a lot of fish here, all sorts, mainly bass and john dory, gurnard croaks, oh, and hapuku, almost forgot those. It goes on for miles like this, there's a whole maze of rivers and inlets here. But I know my way round here pretty well, so you needn't worry that we'll get lost."

Who was worrying? Why did Karl see fit to adopt such a condescending tone? Billy started to feel irritated again. How was it possible to dislike a person so much? Billy didn't normally dislike people with such vehemence. But somehow everything that Karl did or said and even the way he looked set Billy's teeth on edge.

"Those rocks, " Karl bored on. "They're actually fairly dangerous. Even when you're not very close, there's a bit of an eddy there. Do you want me to take over rowing for a bit?"

"No," snapped Billy.

"Okay, okay, sorry. It's quite a tricky passage. But you're doing fine. You're doing really well. Keep to port, though. Port! Uh... port is the left side of the boat, okay? And keep the paddle broadside. Broadside! Look out!!"

And that was when Billy lost the paddle.

There was a sucking noise, and suddenly a tremendous pull at his left-hand oar. Billy loosened his grip without meaning to, the paddle went 'phooing', flew into the air, and was next seen tranquilly drifting off with the current on the other side of the fatal rocks.

Billy stared after the oar. He was so dumbfounded that he even forgot to swear.

Karl didn't swear, either.

"Um..." said Billy. His ears were burning again. He opened his mouth to say 'sorry' but no sound came out. This was terrible. He didn't dare turn around to look at Karl. He tightened his grip around the remaining oar but that was of no use to him now, of course.

Karl wasn't saying anything.

Finally, Billy turned around to face forwards and to face Karl. But he still didn't say 'sorry'.

There was a peculiar expression on Karl's face which made him look almost nice. Almost. The boat was rocking gently back and forth in the backwash of the eddy they had just passed. A tui screeched past. Karl continued to look almost nice. But then the moment snapped. Karl opened his mouth again and gabbled something about how it didn't matter, how the tides on that part of the river would bring the oar back to shore, how the current they were in would carry them comfortably along, how they didn't necessarily need a second oar, Karl could scull, but for now the best thing would be just to drift along in this current until they'd hit the bend in the river, and then there'd be a small landing place there, they'd beach the boat and maybe they could get in a spot of fishing, it was a good spot for bass.

Billy stared glumly at the shore. He was feeling so dismal that he even stopped wishing that Dom were there. The whole day was a fucking disaster. Karl was awkward and boring and uncomfortable to get along with. Billy was being tongue-tied and silent and rude into the bargain, and Billy didn't like being rude. He didn't like Karl for making him be rude. He felt sorry about losing the oar, that had been a bloody stupid thing to do. But he just wished that Karl could be a bit more easy-going about things. It was true that Karl had been nice about the oar. It was true that Karl was probably boring on in order to make Billy feel better about having lost the oar. Even Billy had to concede that the endless stream of mindlessness was probably just Karl's way of making Billy feel better.

Billy didn't feel better, though. Billy felt, if anything, worse. Because now he no longer had only Karl to blame for being awful; he also had himself to blame for being stupid and rude.

On top of everything, there were thick clouds gathering on the horizon, and without the exercise of rowing, Billy was starting to shiver again. He rubbed his bare forearms.

Karl didn't seem to be feeling the cold. Karl was wearing only his T-shirt. And one that was two sizes too small, too, judging by the way it tightened across Karl's chest and hugged his biceps. The multi-pocketed jacket was folded next to him on the bench. The windcheater was gone, presumably stuffed into his bag.

Karl had shut up which added to the relative bearableness of the moment. He was wearing the oddest expression, however, and his eyes were having that funny effect on Billy again. Billy couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Karl's eyes, and Karl wasn't tearing his eyes away, either. So they both sat there for a minute at least, staring at each other as if they were playing a schoolboy's game of chicken. Billy sometimes played that game with Dom, and he was inevitably the one who laughed first, but here in this boat, no one was laughing. The laughter completely dried up in Billy's throat. And the jokes and the words, too. Everything dried up. All he could do was to sit rooted to his bench and go on staring. He suddenly remembered how warm Karl's breath had felt against his neck earlier. Then he felt a small shiver deep inside his guts, and then another one, and then Billy looked away.

Billy looked away and up and past Karl. He looked at the beige and green shoreline and at the pebble-coloured reflection of the overcast sky on the water and at the small sandy beach heaving in sight around the next headland. A small sandy beach, just as Karl had predicted. Billy blinked. The boat rolled from side to side. Little waves smacked the sides. High up, a bellbird called. Billy trailed his hand in the water which felt soft and silky. It was quite tranquil, really. Quite nice and silent.

Then, of course, Karl had to go and break the silence and start yammering on about something or other again. But this time, a funny thing happened. Billy continued to look away and up and past Karl, but he didn't bother listening to Karl's actual words. Instead, Billy just attended to the timbre of Karl's voice and the up-and-down intonations of his speech and the slight catch in the back of his throat whenever Billy chanced to glance at him.

So Billy chanced to glance at him a few times in a row, just to produce that catch.

It worked every time. Worked like a charm.

The problem was that it started to work on Billy as well. Every time he glanced at Karl, there was the catch in Karl's voice. And every time Billy heard the catch in Karl's voice, he felt that small shiver deep inside his guts.

What with the shoreline and the reflection and the waves smacking and the bellbird calling and Karl's voice catching, Billy was almost going into a kind of _plein-air_ trance. And because Billy had stopped listening to Karl's words, it took him a minute or longer to work out that Karl was actually addressing a question to him.

"What?" Billy said and shook his head.

"Scull," said Karl.

"Skull?" repeated Billy, blankly.

"Do you want me to scull?" said Karl. "We're getting quite close to that beach now and I could bring the boat round and scull her in to shore."

"Oh, okay," said Billy, still blankly.

"But..." Karl cleared his throat. "I'll need to be astern for that. So if you'll just let me get past, I'll go aft and pick up the paddle and start sculling."

"Oh, okay," said Billy again. He didn't know where the rest of his vocabulary had disappeared to.

Karl got up. Karl was moving towards Billy, moving in a kind of half-crouching lurch, holding onto the side of the boat with one hand, the other hand outstretched for balance.

Karl reached the middle bench. Billy moved to his left to allow him to pass. Karl moved to his right to pass by Billy. The boat swayed. The boat listed to one side. They both surged towards the centre to regain their balance. Karl fell against Billy, oh no, not this again. Billy fell against Karl. And because Billy was sitting and because Karl was half-crouching, they ended up almost on top of one another, Karl's head just above Billy's, Karl's knees against Billy's knees. The boat rocked again. Billy held onto Karl's arm, Karl held onto Billy's arm. Their faces were inches apart. Karl's eyes were inches from Billy's eyes.

Billy stared into those eyes. His ears burned. His tongue was tied. He had that small shiver deep inside his guts, except it wasn't small any longer.

Then Karl kissed Billy.

Wrong. That was wrong. Where was the rewind button? Billy did not want to be kissed by Karl. Why was he being kissed by Karl? Billy lifted his hand and pressed it against Karl's chest to push him away. Karl's chest, clad only in the T-shirt, felt warm and strong under Billy's palm. But that was not relevant. Not relevant at all. Just an incidental sensation that couldn't be avoided. Billy pushed but it was an ineffectual push. It only served to bring Karl tumbling further down on top of Billy, and now Karl's chest was pressed right up against Billy's chest, and Billy's hand was trapped in between.

So Billy opened his mouth to say, 'Get off me, Karl', but of course, Karl's lips were on Billy's and all that came out was the sound, "Mm-mm, mm." And what was worse, Karl seemed to misunderstand Billy's open mouth as some sort of invitation, because he pushed his tongue in and moved it around in there, and that was definitely not part of the plan.

Billy said, "Mm-m" again, but that only appeared to inflame Karl's ardour further. He flung one arm around Billy in a vice-like grip. The arm felt warm around Billy's back, Karl's warm arm against Billy's chilly back. Billy swayed, perched on the bench as he was, and Karl swayed into him, and by now it seemed kind of late to be pushing Karl off because the kiss had gone on for so long.

One thing, though: Karl was a terrible kisser.

Karl's kissing was just as uninspired as his conversation. Billy might have known. Karl kissed just as Billy had imagined he would kiss. Not that Billy had ever imagined Karl kissing. Of course not. Billy didn't imagine guys kissing. He didn't think about guys kissing him or about him kissing guys, and he had never ever before exchanged kisses with a bloke. Except with Dom, but that didn't count. Billy was always smooching Dom when they were drunk. And once, when they had both been pissed as newts, Billy had stuck his tongue into Dom's mouth, just to see what it felt like. It had tasted of beer and cardamom, and Dom's tongue had curled up under Billy's like a small wiggly squirrel.

Karl's tongue wasn't like a squirrel. It was like a fucking huge slug, sliming its way round Billy's mouth. Billy wasn't pissed, either; he almost wished he were, he wished he weren't quite as stone-cold sober as he was, but no, he wasn't pissed, he was just pissed off. Karl was stabbing his tongue aggressively into Billy's cheeks. He was slithering his tongue around in the space between Billy's teeth and his gums, he had his mouth stretched open far too wide, and Billy hated that style of kissing. It was hurting Billy's mouth, being stretched open like that. Karl was also wagging his head about in a highly irritating manner, and to top it off, he was still wearing his baseball cap and the visor kept scraping against Billy's forehead. It was fucking irritating, and trust Karl to be such a terrible kisser.

So Billy put his hand up to tug the cap off, and then he kept his hand there to steady Karl's wagging head, and then, of course, his hand got tangled in Karl's hair. That was not too bad, thankfully. Karl's hair felt thick and freshly-washed, and it was nice and semi-long, it was Éomer-length, almost like a girl's, and Billy didn't mind that. He didn't mind being able to bunch up Karl's hair between his fingers, to let Karl's hair trail over the back of his hand.

Unfortunately, Karl didn't only have the Éomer hair, he also had the Éomer beard and the Éomer moustache, and because the guy was so clumsy at positioning his lips across Billy's, half the time Billy got a mouthful of bristle between his teeth.

So what with steadying Karl's head and spitting out Karl's bristles and trying to close Karl's lips somewhat and pushing his own tongue back at Karl's to dislodge it from Billy's gums -- Billy was kept fairly busy for at least five minutes.

It turned out that after a while, Billy stopped minding Karl's aggressive tongue because Billy's irritation was carried into the kiss. Billy kissed his irritation into Karl and countered Karl's aggressive tongue with his own aggressive tongue. He fought with Karl's tongue in his mouth, he banged his teeth against Karl's deliberately, he bit Karl's tongue, bit it so hard that Karl winced. But Karl didn't pull away, and their kiss was like a fucking wrestling match, Billy almost choking on Karl's tongue and on the need to subdue Karl and to punish him for being such a bore and a know-it-all and for not being Dom. Yes, to punish him for not being Dom. There you go, Karl, serves you fucking right, you sad case, serves you right for lunging at me and putting your filthy hands all over me and for staring at me all the time in that stupid perverted way.

The worst thing, though, was that Karl appeared to misunderstand all these things. He appeared to take Billy's hand in his hair as a sign of affection because he started to scratch his own hand through Billy's hair, and he appeared to misunderstand Billy's aggressive tongue as an invitation for more, because he started to push his groin against Billy, and he appeared to misunderstand Billy's biting as a sign of abandoned passion because he started to bite Billy back, bite his tongue and his lips.

Then Karl began to grunt loudly.

Fuck. Trust Karl to be a grunter. Billy didn't like grunting. Grunting was a completely blokish thing to be doing. Billy himself never grunted, and he didn't like to hear any grunting, and Karl's blokish grunting was totally and utterly the last straw.

But then Billy discovered something disturbing. He discovered that he had some sort of grunt receptor attached straight to his dick. Because even though Billy's brain found Karl's grunting singularly unappealing, Billy's dick responded with startling promptness to the grunts.

In short, Billy got a hard-on.

Shit.

He squirmed discreetly to try and pull his groin away from Karl's. Because it was all very well kissing Karl and having automated biological responses to Karl but he sure as fuck wasn't going to let Karl know about them or to let this go any further than it, apparently, already had. So Billy squirmed but all he succeeded in doing was to slide off the bench, taking Karl with him, until they were both in the bottom of the boat, wet patch soaking into Billy's jeans from below, wooden bench digging into Billy's ribs from behind, Karl lying against him from above, and Karl's cock, hard as a fucking paddle and about as big, pressing against Billy's dick through the denim of their jeans.

Billy gasped. With frustration. Karl gasped, too, but he didn't sound frustrated. In fact, Karl's kissing got more frenzied. Billy literally had to wrench Karl's hair into knots in his fist to stop him from moving his head about quite so wildly. Karl winced and pulled away from Billy's mouth.

So Billy found himself looking into Karl's face again. Karl had pink splotches high up on his cheeks, he had sweat on his forehead, and the open fullness of his eyes made Billy's knees tremble. It was just as well that they were wedged between two benches at the bottom of a boat because if they'd been standing up, Billy might well have keeled over under the impact of Karl's eyes.

Billy struggled to say something. This was the moment. This was his cue to say, 'Fuck off, Karl. Get your filthy paws off me, Karl. Go and maul someone else, Karl.' Billy did try. He did open his mouth and he did get as far as "Fuck", but then Karl, his eyes glazing over in the most remarkable fashion, started to fumble with his jeans. Karl's hand was somewhere down there, squeezed in between their two bellies. Billy, in his alarm, forgot about saying 'Fuck off, Karl', and instead moved his own hand down there. In order to push Karl's hand away, of course. No other reason. For a fraction of a second, their hands were tangled together in their groin area, then Billy's hand touched something, fucking hell. Billy's hand touched something hot, something smooth, something naked. Fuck, Karl must have unzipped in a bloody lightning flash, and before Billy knew it, his own fingers were on Karl's naked cock.

Billy froze.

Billy's fingers on Karl had an instant effect. Karl let out a long groan. His eyes fell shut, Billy saw his dusky lashes against the pale skin under his eyes; how strange, that that little bit of skin was so pale when the rest of Karl's face was so flushed... and how delicate Karl's eyelids looked, with a tiny blue vein running through the left one, like a bit of fly pooh.

So there they were, stuck together in a small boat, stuck to each other by misunderstandings, Karl and Billy, Billy and fucking Karl. And Billy still didn't like Karl Urban but this did not seem to be the moment to make that clear. Misunderstanding was compounding misunderstanding, and now Karl seemed to think that Billy had wanted to grab his cock on purpose. Karl was holding onto Billy as if Billy were some sort of a life preserver. He was groaning into Billy's neck. He was producing that catch in the back of his throat, just by groaning. In fact, he wasn't only groaning, he was licking and biting Billy's neck. He was moving his hand down past Billy's waistband and fumbling with Billy's zipper, and of course, it took him ages to undo it. All the time, Billy just stared at the overcast sky, felt the rippling of the water under the boat, felt the rippling of Karl's cock in his own hand and had no idea how to get himself out of this one.

Billy had never held another bloke's dick before. He had only ever felt his own dick. Karl's cock felt different. Well, more or less the same, of course, but it was of a different width and of a different length and there was a different kind of vein in a different place, and then, also, Billy was holding it from the other side. When Billy closed his fist around his own dick, his thumb came to rest against the tender spot just underneath the head, and if he nudged that spot, he could make himself come very fast. But when Billy closed his fist around Karl's cock, his thumb was on the outside, and when he nudged his thumb up, it hit a completely different spot.

It had a startling effect, nevertheless. As soon as Billy began to nudge his thumb, Karl began to grunt again, and then, Karl finally got the zipper undone and wrapped his hand around Billy's dick.

Billy gasped.

What Karl was doing was all wrong, of course. Karl was grabbing Billy much too hard, pressing and pumping Billy as if he were some sort of Hungarian sausage. And there was no rhythm to it, and Karl's thumb was nowhere to be felt, and it was much too fast, oh, much... too... fast... shit. Fuck, fuck.

"Oh," moaned Billy. And because Karl wasn't doing anything with his thumb, Billy did things to Karl with his own thumb. And the things Billy was doing to Karl with his thumb seemed to drive Karl into an absolute frenzy. Karl was grunting. Karl was biting into Billy's shoulder. Karl was moving up and down against Billy.

"Oh God," moaned Billy.

The beige shoreline was still there, the small sandy beach was still visible, but it was all growing somewhat blurry. Something was going wrong with Billy's vision; he really must go and see an optometrist about that. And yes, the birds were still calling, but their calls were strangely fuzzy and far-way, and maybe Billy should see an ear specialist as well. And now the boat seemed to be swaying in a most alarming way, maybe the boat was going to capsize, maybe they were both going to topple into the water and drown, but Billy didn't fucking care because Karl was pumping him like nobody's business, doing it all wrong but Billy's brain had gone on holiday to Cambodia, and Billy's dick didn't seem to care if Karl was doing it all wrong. And sooner or later this ridiculous situation was going to come to an end, that was for sure, sooner or later, well, more like sooner... oh, more like very soon... more like... oh... like now. Like. Now.

For several seconds, the boat vanished, the sky vanished, Karl vanished, and Billy was in an Alpine meadow full of little white daisies. The grass was green, there was a brown cow in the distance, it was like a fucking ad for Swiss chocolate. Except it wasn't an ad, it was an orgasm.

How peculiar.

How peculiar to be transported to an Alpine meadow when you were actually on a New Zealand river.

How peculiar and how fucking insane.

The meadow was receding. The cow shrank as if seen through the wrong end of a zoom lens. Billy returned from his Alpine meadow and found himself back in the boat, on the river, clinging to Karl. He kept his nose in Karl's neck. He kept his hand around Karl's cock, Karl's rapidly shrinking, come-covered cock. How ridiculous, to be sitting there, fingers covered in Karl's sticky jism, boxers wet with his own come, Karl breathing on his neck in ragged gulps.

The reason Billy kept clinging onto Karl was that he had absolutely no fucking idea what to do next.

So for the longest time they just clung. Billy didn't say anything, Karl didn't say anything. Billy didn't keep silent because he felt tongue-tied, he just didn't feel the need to say anything. Karl, it seemed, didn't either, and that was a blessing and a half. Even though Billy wouldn't even have minded a bit of droning about fish and tides. A bit of droning might actually have been just the thing to send him into a nice little doze.

Karl's breathing was quite regular now. In fact, it was Karl who had fallen into a nice little doze against Billy's neck. Billy felt sure that the bench was creating a permanent weal against his back and he was getting cramp in his calves but Karl was a warm weight against his front and Karl's breath was warm against his neck and, come to think of it, Billy felt warm all over.

But he was still irritated. Yes, he was warm. Yes, he was slightly drowsy. But those were purely physiological reactions. Mentally, Billy was seething. He couldn't believe what had just happened. He couldn't believe that Karl had jumped his buns and that he, Billy, had gone along with it, and that he had come, actually fucking come, into Karl Urban's hand. And how would he ever be able to tell Dom about this? This was not the stuff that funny little anecdotes were made of.

What was worse was that Karl had now woken up. Karl seemed to think that the sordid little scenario they had just enacted on this boat constituted some sort of passport to lovey-dovey bliss. He was nibbling Billy's ears in a most annoying fashion, and then licking Billy's jaw, and he was making low cooing noises.

"Look, Karl," said Billy, unceremoniously pushing at Karl. "We did this once, okay, but we're not going to do it again."

Karl's face fell. "Why..." he began to say.

"I just don't like you," said Billy.

Karl blanched. His face went white as a parsnip.

"In that way," Billy added, quickly if lamely. "I don't like you in that way."

"Oh," Karl said in a flat voice. "But I thought..."

Billy cut him off, "Well, you thought wrong. Now get off."

It was remarkable how fast the mood in the boat could go from passionately hot to icy. Karl moved off. Karl was pale as death. Karl's lips were pinched. Karl's eyes which had been so full and open a moment earlier, emptied rapidly and became small and slitty. The whole of Karl seemed to coil inwards.

Fuck this boat. Billy did not want to be stuck on this boat one second longer. He did not want to be stuck here, with bloody Karl, looking at Karl's pinched face and slitty eyes. Billy wanted to be thirty miles away. So, it seemed, did Karl because he bent down and started busying himself with his stuff. That should last a while, given how much stuff he had with him. Karl was bent over, face hidden, opening zips, rustling plastic bags, digging around under rolled-up towels, unfastening velcro strips. He pulled out a box of tissues, started to clean himself up, thrust the box at Billy without saying a word and without looking up. Karl was shaking. Karl's shoulders were shaking. Karl's hands were shaking as he crumpled up the tissues and stuffed them into a side pocket of his bag.

Oh, great. Now Billy had a shaking Karl on his hands. A shaking, lovelorn Karl, suppressing tears and shaking with the effort of it. Well, wasn't that just fucking great, and what a wonderful addition to this already disastrous little outing. Of all the people in the world to go soppy on Billy. It was too ridiculous.

Observing Karl's shaking shoulders and Karl's shaking hands made Billy shake, too. It made Billy shake with irritation. Billy discovered that his previous annoyance had been nothing compared to this whole new knot of irritation and rage sitting in his guts and waiting to be released.

"Pull yourself together," he said to Karl, shortly.

Karl looked up, and Billy realised that Karl hadn't been shaking with suppressed tears at all. Karl had been shaking with anger, and his eyes were small and slitty, and they burnt like black bombs.

"What?" Karl said, and Billy didn't like the low tone of his voice.

"I said..." Billy repeated, testily.

"I heard you," said Karl, still in that low voice. "And let me tell you, I have really just about had enough."

"What..." began Billy.

"No, you shut up," continued Karl, his voice shaking but not loud. "You've been a fucking pain in the arse all afternoon, and have I said anything? No. I've been trying to be nice to you. I know how slutted you are about Dom."

"Dom?" croaked Billy. His ears began to burn. "Slutted?"

"Yes, you know: pissed off. I know how much you wanted to go parachuting yourself. And how upset you were that Orli picked Dom and not you to go with him. I wanted to make this day nice for you. So that you wouldn't mind about the parachuting."

"Oho," said Billy, finding his voice again. "You have got that so wrong."

"So I understand that you're in a bad mood, and I understand that you'd rather be somewhere else, but just stop being at me. Especially now that we... Because it is really starting to get to me."

Billy looked at Karl, at Karl shaking, at Karl making slitty eyes. The sight of Karl made the knot of rage in Billy's guts burn. It made the rage burn and rise in waves of gall to Billy's head, and then the knot unravelled and the gall exploded out of Billy's mouth.

"You have got that so fucking wrong, Karl!" shouted Billy. "I never wanted to go bloody parachuting! I just wanted to have a nice little boating outing. The reason I'm in a bad mood, Karl, is not because of the parachuting; it's because of you! It's because you're a boring, stuck-up stupid fart..."

Karl's eyes blazed. "And you are a rude, arrogant, cruel Scottish prick," he said, still in that dangerously low voice. "And if I'd known what you were really like I sure as fuck wouldn't have bothered to fall in love with you."

"Love?" scoffed Billy. The word was like oil upon the flames of his fury. "Love?! Don't make me puke, you sad sod! Don't tell me you're in _love_ with me!"

"Was," corrected Karl. "Was. I'm not going to bother with it from now on, that's for sure. Not after you have insulted me and humiliated me."

"Insulted and humiliated?" screeched Billy. "What, you mean, _you_ were all over me like a bloody leech! Putting your filthy paws all over me and mauling me..."

"Shut up," said Karl. "You were enjoying it."

"I was _not_!" retorted Billy.

Karl jumped up and the boat lurched. Billy's stomach lurched. It was unclear whether Billy's stomach lurched because of the boat rocking or because of the way Karl looked at him, shaking and slitty and looming like a bison about to run amok.

"I should just throw you overboard," Karl said, voice barely audible. There was a vein on his neck that looked as if it was about to pop. "I should just chuck you in the bloody water but your swimming is probably as crap as your rowing."

"Oh, we'll see about that," yelled Billy, jumping up himself, shaking with anger himself, going cross-eyed with rage and barely able to focus on Karl's stupid slitty face.

Billy threw himself at Karl. Karl lunged at Billy. The boat rocked violently. Their shoes were going 'bonk, bank' on the wooden boards of the boat's bottom. Water sprayed over the sides. They were grappling with each other, panting with frustration, pulling and tugging, kicking and punching. It wasn't easy fighting on a boat. The space was much too small. There was nowhere to get a proper hold with one's feet. And Karl was fucking tall and fucking strong and fucking mad as a bull. The boat tossed and pitched and rolled and yawed. Their legs got caught around each other, their hands clawed at thin air, they both pitched over the side, the backs of Billy's knees painfully scraping along the rowlock. There was a loud 'sploosh'. Water closed over Billy's head and gurgled into his nose. Bloody freezing water. Much more freezing than he would have believed possible from just trailing his hand in it. And not soft and silky at all.

The water was dragging at Billy's clothes. His cotton shirt, his jeans, his socks, his shoes, all were soaking themselves full of water. It was difficult to move with all those waterlogged things hanging off him. And Karl was thrashing about just in front of his nose. Then there was a bang; Billy felt a blow to his head, and another one, he opened his mouth and swallowed water. It was the boat. He'd hit his head against the boat's side and moved his arms madly to get away from it.

Billy surfaced and gulped for air. The boat was still upright. It hadn't capsized but it was bobbing madly on the waves. Karl was a mere two feet away, spluttering, water streaming from his hair down his forehead and along his cheeks and nose.

"Fuck you, Billy," he spluttered.

"Fuck you too, Karl," said Billy, grabbed Karl's head and kissed him.

Karl immediately kissed him back.

It was an awkward, totally ridiculous and uncomfortable kiss. It was a kiss that shouldn't even exist. Two guys treading water, fully clothed, heads bobbing unsteadily, nothing to grab onto, water everywhere. And Billy was definitely not going to tell Dom about this part of the day's outing, about how he was kissing Karl in the water and kissing him more and kissing him harder and then grabbing onto him after all, knowing he'd only pull him under. And sure enough, they went under but didn't break their kiss, just closed their eyes, blindly taking in lips and tongues and fucking zillions of gallons of river into the bargain.

Then they came up again, spitting water, and Karl said, "You stupid cunt, we could have capsized." And Billy said, "Fucked if I care." And Karl said, "Yeah, fucked too." And they licked each other's lips and teeth, cold wet lips against cold wet skin, and shivered into each other's mouths.

"We're going to die of cold," said Karl.

"Yeah, fuck," said Billy.

With two swift strokes, Karl was at the boat. He had his hands on the gunwale and pulled himself up. Billy scrambled after him. They sat at the bottom of the boat, streaming with water and breathing heavily.

Being wet out of the water was even worse than being wet in the water. Cool air blew on the soaked clothes and the soaked hair. The soaked clothes clung wetly to the soaked skin. The jeans were worst. They were like stiff, wet pieces of cardboard wrapped around legs. Billy sneezed. He could almost feel a flu crawling up from his lungs into his throat and head. He felt shivery, his teeth were chattering, his lips felt black and blue. In addition, his left upper arm and his right thigh also felt black and blue, from where Karl had punched and pinched him only minutes before.

What an outing.

Billy was dripping, and Karl was dripping. Karl's hair was plastered across his forehead in a seventies-style fringe, water was streaming down his nose and cheeks, dribbling from his eyebrows and from his moustache and from his beard, trickling down Karl's neck, making his neckline shine and his T-shirt cling to his chest so that his hard, stiff nipples pressed against the wet cotton.

Not that Billy cared about Karl's hard, stiff nipples. He had hard, stiff nipples himself. Hard with cold, positively puckered with cold. Billy sneezed. There was water glugging about in his left ear. To cap it all, there was a squashed pulp in Billy's back pocket. He pulled it out. It was what remained of _Julius Caesar_.

So, what with being miserable and wet, Billy had precious little attention left for Karl's hard, stiff nipples or Karl's wet neckline or, Heaven forbid, Karl's naked torso. Because now Karl was stripping off. He was tugging his wet T-shirt over his wet head, then spreading it out on the middle bench to dry and digging around in his bag for a towel. He towelled off his hair vigorously, droplets flying, and he rubbed his chest, rubbed right across those hard, stiff nipples, now visible and exposed to the air.

Billy found himself staring which was really too stupid, considering, and he only stopped staring when a towel caught him squarely in the face, thrown at him by Karl, without a word. Then Karl moved past him, still without a word, and who needed Karl's words, anyway? In moving past, Karl set the boat rocking but he didn't apologise, pushing roughly past Billy but still not apologising. He yanked the remaining oar out of its position inside the boat and sat down in the stern.

Karl began to scull. Billy sat huddled on his bench and sneezed into his towel. He had to admit that Karl was good at the sculling. He swivelled his torso round with each downstroke, he twisted about on the bench, making his chest muscles heave, he peered into the distance with what seemed to Billy a masterfully gauging gaze.

Billy began to feel irritated again. Again. Still. Continually. Karl's stupid, haughty expression and Karl's stupid muscular arms manipulating the oar and Karl's stupid hard, stiff nipples, each pore on the aureoles like a small solid nub, each aureole surrounded by an expanse of smooth skin. Not a hair in sight, only the black hair under Karl's arms, curly with moisture, and a hint of something just above the waistband of Karl's jeans.

They reached the shore within minutes, Karl was sculling with such resolute determination. As soon as the sand of the little beach scrunched under the boat's bottom, Karl jumped out, splashing through the shallows in his wellingtons, doing stuff with the rope, tethering it to something, a bush or a rock.

Billy sneezed again and clambered out after Karl. He swayed about the beach on sea legs. Nobody said a word. The wordlessness was making Billy more irritable by the second. Unsaid words were threatening to choke Billy. _Something_ was choking Billy from the inside. His head was starting to hurt with it, and his balls were fucking freezing to death in his horribly sodden jeans.

Karl had hauled his bag ashore, and his fishing rod. He clamped his baseball cap back on his moist head. He was pulling off his boots and socks and jeans, and tugging at his boxer shorts. He was, in fact, stripping off completely. And in another few seconds, he was going to be nude.

"What the fuck?" said Billy, the words escaping from his choked inside. "Not this again."

"Do you mind?" said Karl, as if he'd only waited for a cue to speak. "I'm only taking off my clothes." He enunciated each word carefully, as if speaking to an idiot. "So that I won't catch my death of pneumonia. And if _you_ choose to interpret this in any other way, that's your business and that's your own sick mind."

"Me?" cried Billy. "I'm not the one interpreting this in any fucking way!"

"Good!" said Karl. He was now completely stark raving naked, and Billy's ears were burning as if lit by internal microwave ovens. Yes, Billy knew that he should take off his own clothes. He should take off his wet shirt, and he should take off his sopping socks and his soggy shoes and his sodden jeans and his drenched underpants, just like Karl had done, and then he should towel himself off, just as Karl was doing. And now there were certainly more hairs visible, fuck, Karl's dark pubic thatch and nestling in the middle of it, Karl's cock, tiny and blue, and Karl's balls, wrinkled and brown. Billy remembered how he had held that cock in his hands only minutes earlier, and he had a rushing sensation in his ears.

"Well?" said Karl. "What are you staring at? Never seen a naked man before?"

"Oh, fuck off, Karl!" yelled Billy. Which wasn't a tremendously imaginative retort but Billy's imagination had joined his brain in Cambodia. Billy's imagination had gone on vacation somewhere else, no, not quite, Billy's imagination seemed to be wholly taken up with Karl's cock at the moment, too awkward, too bloody stupid.

As if Billy cared about Karl's stupid cock.

"And you can stop giving me those come-hither looks," said Karl. "I'm not falling for those any more."

Billy, his teeth chattering, his shirt clinging to his back, said, "What come-hither looks? Don't let your fevered imagination run away with you."

And that was a laugh and a half, because Billy's fevered imagination had already run away in all sorts of inappropriate directions.

"Don't give me that bullcrap," said Karl, bending over to arrange his jeans for drying on a bush, and the sight of Karl's hairy arse staring up at Billy and Karl's balls visible between Karl's furry thighs -- well, what a totally off-putting, ridiculous sight.

"You've been giving me come-hither looks for weeks," Karl continued.

"What?" said Billy, momentarily distracted by Karl's hairy arse, but rallying his scattered thoughts just in time to reply, "No! _You_ have been staring at _me_ for weeks!"

However, the ground suddenly didn't seem quite as sure on this one. True. Karl had been staring at Billy. But why had Billy even noticed that Karl was staring? Because Billy had been staring after Karl. Shit. And trust stupid Karl to misunderstand everything.

Although Billy couldn't even be sure any longer what was the correct way of understanding all that staring.

"Oh, tell another one," said Karl.

"You stupid, self-absorbed pervert!" cried Billy, only for something to say, because truly, he didn't know where he stood any more on this whole issue.

Karl pounced. Billy was knocked to the ground, face in the sand. Karl was lying on top of him, his whole length and weight pinning Billy to the ground. Karl was lying on top of Billy, stark raving naked, and Billy felt that tiny cock and those shrivelled balls softly pressing against his sodden, jeans-clad buttocks. Karl smelled moist, of fish and river mud.

He also felt warm. He was warming up the wet water in Billy's clothes, and his breath was warm against Billy's neck.

Billy struggled to free himself. "Get the fuck off, Karl," he said in a strangled voice.

"Is this what you want?" said Karl, breathing hotly into Billy's right ear. "After you've insulted me and humiliated me, do you want me to humiliate you?"

"What, are you going to rape me now or what?" gasped Billy, spitting sand.

Suddenly the weight was off him. Billy felt a sudden sting of disappointment. Karl had jumped off, and it was cold again. Billy lifted his head, still lying in the sand, sand sticking ickily against his shirt and wet jeans. Karl was standing some way off. He looked furious.

"What do you think I am, you fucked-up little Scot?" he said. With those words, Karl snatched up his things, jeans, T-shirt, thrust his bare feet into the boots, threw on his multi-pocketed and multi-zippered coat, grabbed his bag, dug around in it, chucked his windcheater at Billy -- "here, keep warm" -- and marched off.

"Wait!" shouted Billy. "Where are you going? Come back!"

Karl didn't turn around. He was already half-way up the hill. Shrubs and twigs were snagging his naked thighs but he didn't seem bothered, he just strode on.

Billy struggled to his feet.

"Fuck off, Karl!" he yelled.

"That's just what I'm doing!" shouted Karl.

"Where do you think you're going?" yelled Billy. "You can't just march off into the middle of nowhere! Half naked!"

"Middle of nowhere! Don't make me laugh, you pathetic tourist. This is _not_ the middle of nowhere. In fact, there's another boat-rental place just on the other side of this hill. It'll take me all of twenty minutes to walk to it!"

"So what... what about me?" cried Billy, suddenly desperate.

"Scull back on your own," came Karl's callous reply.

"I can't!" cried Billy. "I don't know how to!"

"Tough tits," said Karl.

"Karl, come back!"

"No."

"Fuck you, Karl!"

"Yeah, you wish."

"Karl!" wailed Billy. Karl was almost gone now. His silhouette was outlined against the cloudy sky, complete with baseball cap, multi-pocketed coat, long bare legs sticking out of wellington boots, hump-like bag and antenna-like fishing rod.

"I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me!" yelled Karl from atop the hill.

"Fuck you!" yelled Billy again from below the hill.

Billy's body was slowly freezing into a solid column. Karl was going, going, gone. And while things had been ridiculous and horrible and deteriorating from minute to minute _with_ Karl, at least there had been someone to let fly against. But Karl was gone. There were only grasses, disconsolately waving in the breeze where Karl's silhouette had just been.

Billy was seething. He stomped about the beach, seething with rage. He bent his head back and screamed, "Fu-u-u-uck!" at the sky. He picked up a stone and threw it full pelt into the river. He kicked a rock and stubbed his toe. After a few minutes of this, Billy stopped seething. He decided that seething at inanimate nature was really quite a pointless exercise. There was no satisfaction to it at all. It wasn't like seething at Karl.

He was still freezing. He was still, because of misplaced modesty, encased in sand-caked, sopping cotton. So Billy finally, with a quick look round at the absolutely deserted beach and the even more deserted river, took off his shirt and his jeans and his socks and shoes. He draped them all over the self-same bush that Karl's jeans had been draped over. Karl hadn't packed the towel he'd thrown at Billy, it was still there, in the sand, next to where Karl had jumped Billy. Billy retrieved it and slowly dried himself off. Already, he felt much better. Well, he felt drier, and that was an immense help. It made his head hurt less and his skin less shivery. Now what he needed was a piss.

Billy positioned himself, naked as he was, at the edge of the beach and pointed his dick towards the scrub behind, and then had a nice long pee. The pee was hot and that warmed his dick for about five seconds. Afterwards, Billy looked around, spotted the windcheater lying on the sand, picked it up and put it on. Karl was taller than Billy, and broader than Billy, so the windcheater reached half-way down Billy's thighs and the sleeves flopped down over Billy's wrist. But after all that time spent shivering and wet and freezing, it was very pleasant to be wrapped up in dry, 100 per cent polyester.

Billy crouched down on the beach, pulled up his knees and tucked them under the baggy front of the fleecy windcheater. All that poked out were his toes, and if he kept on sitting like that he might almost survive for half an hour. Of course, his clothes would take much longer than that to dry. From experience, Billy knew that jeans especially took forever to dry, even when it was sunny, even when there was a wind. There was only a breeze now, enough to freeze your balls off but not enough to dry denim, and it wasn't sunny.

There was also no food here. Billy found himself thinking of Karl's bag and all its contents. Idiotic as the bag was and naff as it was to tote such a bag with you on a little afternoon boating trip, that bag _did_ contain some very useful things. The towel Billy was sitting on had emerged from that bag, and the windcheater Billy was wearing had resided in that bag, and Billy also remembered a ziplock bag of apples and some sandwiches and a water bottle and goodness knows what other goodies in that bag of Karl's. At this very moment, Karl was probably on the other side of the hill, pulling an entire set of spare clothing out of that bag, sipping hot coffee from a thermos and munching his way through a 200-gram packet of trailer mix.

Whereas all that Billy had to comfort him was a six-pack of beer, a soggy Shakespeare play and one lone paddle.

He was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with one lone paddle and no Karl.

Well, no Karl was a blessing. That was for sure. Thank Heavens he'd finally got rid of that bothersome Karl. Hooray. Billy stood up and walked up and down the beach, enjoying his new-found peace.

That lasted for all of one minute.

So, after one last wistful thought about Karl's bag and the apples, sandwiches, thermoses, trailer-mix packets, chocolate tortes, five-course meals and gourmet picnic hampers hidden away in that bag, Billy made his way to the beached boat. He stood next to it, floppy windcheater above, white bare legs below, and studied the rowlocks, the remaining oar, the way the boat was tied to a protruding rock. Billy knelt down and scrutinised the knot holding the rope in place. It was probably not a knot at all. It was probably something like a double-spliced clove or a triple-looped hitch or whatever these marine moorings were called. Billy tried to remember his youthful readings of _Swallows and Amazons_ but the terms and the facts had all disappeared into the mist of forgetfulness. Whatever it was, this knot looked scarily efficient. Karl was evidently a good knot-tier, and Billy didn't like to undo this particular specimen in case he couldn't get it re-knotted and the boat would drift away.

And anyway, why did he keep thinking of Karl? Ridiculous. He didn't need to think of Karl, now that Karl was gone. He could just walk about this beach without thinking of Karl one single time. Okay, so the knot reminded him of Karl, and the windcheater reminded him of Karl, and the slightly empty feeling in his stomach reminded him of Karl and his bag. Shit, and when did the boat have to be back? Billy glanced at his wrist but there was no watch there. Just as well, what with the drowning and all, he'd have ruined his watch. Karl, of course, had sported some chunky, multi-dial sporty number that probably could not only tell the time but read your temperature and predict the phases of the moon as well.

There he was, thinking about Karl again.

Must stop thinking about Karl. Too ridiculous.

Billy surveyed the boat, arms akimbo. Oh, and what was that? If it wasn't Karl's bucket. Karl had left his bucket behind. Billy peered inside. There was something squirming at the bottom of the bucket: bait. If it came to the crunch and Billy got marooned here for days, he could always try fishing with a line and this bait. Alternatively, he could just eat the bait.

But Billy wasn't going to be marooned on this beach for days. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. If Karl could scull, so could he. Billy wasn't a Boyd for nothing! So he stepped into the boat, settled himself on the rear bench, grasped the oar and dipped it into the water by way of experiment.

He would just practise sculling a little before untying the boat. He would just paddle up and down a few yards, within range of the rope. How hard could it be? He tried to recall how Karl had done it but Billy had been too befuddled by rage and cold and the aftermath of just having been kissed to have paid much attention to Karl's sculling technique. All he could remember was how Karl's chest had heaved when he had moved the oar, and how Karl's muscles had twisted when Karl swivelled the paddle.

Rot. There he went, thinking about bloody Karl again.

Enough of that. Billy made some tentative swivel motions with the oar. He also made sure to grab onto the oar for dear life. The last thing he wanted was to lose another oar. He stabbed the paddle into the water again, just astern, and swivelled it out. Yes, yes, the boat was moving. And forwards. That was a good sign. Billy stabbed again and swivelled again. The boat was straining at its mooring. Very good. That meant it was moving. Billy was making progress. He'd lick this sculling business yet.

There was a flash of something out on the sound. Billy looked up. He scanned the shoreline on the far side of the river. He followed a bird with his eyes on its flight path.

Then Billy saw the dolphins.

There were four of them. Four dolphins, four perfect commas, arching out of the water in unison, building a bridge in the air.

Billy stopped sculling. He shaded his eyes and leant forwards. The dolphins were grey and wet and shimmering. They were like an apparition.

Billy had never seen dolphins in the wild before. No, once he had, as a boy, up in Dundee, in the firth. But there had been only one dolphin there and not this close. These dolphins were so close that Billy could make out their button-like shiny eyes and their blunt, pointy snouts.

The dolphins moved towards Billy's right in a series of graceful arches. They leapt over the waves, they gambolled, they frolicked. They disappeared around the headland. They were like a vision from another world.

Suddenly, Billy remembered why he loved New Zealand.

Things didn't seem so bad any longer, either. Karl had fucked off, that was true. But Billy was slowly getting dry. And he'd be able to scull this boat, no sweat. He could take his time over it. Maybe he'd even see some more dolphins. Maybe they'd come gambolling right around his boat. Billy applied himself to his sculling with revived vigour.

In fact, Billy was so intent on his sculling practice that he didn't hear the footfall on the beach. Billy was only intent on the plashing of his own oar in the water. He was also getting quite nice and warm from the exercise. He was really getting into it, in fact. With the next swivel, Billy actually laughed to himself with pleasure at getting the hang of this.

He looked up. There, on the beach, stood Karl.

Karl, his cap, his multi-pocketed jacket, his bag, his rod, and yes: an oar.

Billy froze, his own oar up out of the water.

"Hi," said Karl.

"What are you doing back?," said Billy.

"Nice welcome," said Karl. "You didn't really think I'd leave you here?"

"Hope springs eternal," said Billy. "What's that you've got there?"

"Yeah, isn't that choice? I found the other oar!" said Karl, brandishing said item.

"Wow, Karl!" cried Billy. He stowed his oar and jumped out of the boat, wading through the water up to Karl. He stared in disbelief at the oar in Karl's hand. He touched the oar in disbelief. Yep, it was really the oar. The oar that Billy had lost.

Karl was grinning, looking proud of himself. Well, smug. Looking smug. But he'd stopped looking like a bison in heat and just looked like silly old Karl again.

Billy was grinning, too. He didn't know why but he was. He tried to quieten the corners of his mouth, to pull them into submission, but they didn't obey and kept on quivering upwards.

"Guess what I saw?" Billy burst out. "I saw dolphins. Four of them! All in a row."

"Did you?" said Karl, and now he had that inscrutable expression on again, and his eyes were going all intense. "Yeah, you get them here sometimes."

"They were over there." Billy pointed. "They were jumping over the waves. Beautiful."

"Yeah," said Karl, and Billy had a funny feeling that Karl wasn't agreeing about the dolphins but about something else. Someone else. Billy looked down at himself and tugged at the bottom of the windcheater.

"Suits you," said Karl and grinned.

"So," said Billy, stepping from one wet foot to the other. "Will I have to have sex with you to get my hands on that paddle?"

"That would be nice," smiled Karl. Billy's ears started to burn. "But you were doing a good job there at sculling. I'm glad I came back when I did. Another few minutes, and you'd have been half-way across the river."

Billy's ears stopped burning.

"So are you going to jump me again?" asked Billy. A little shiver formed inside his guts.

"No, no fear," said Karl. "Never again."

The shiver in Billy's guts guttered and died.

Billy asked yet another question. He was beginning to feel like Little Red Riding Hood interrogating the Wolf. "And are you going to kiss me again?"

"Well..." said Karl, looking at Billy in that way, making Billy's knees tremble. "No. I promise."

Billy's knees stopped trembling.

Billy also felt a shaft of disappointment spear him down the middle. Where the irritation had been before, down the centre of his body and coiled up in his guts -- that was where the disappointment now was. Of all the ridiculous feelings to take the place of the irritation.

Karl stood there, in his bulky jacket and bare legs. Billy stood there, in Karl's windcheater and his own bare legs.

"You can if you want," said Billy. His knees started to tremble again.

"Oh," said Karl but didn't move.

"Well, go on then," said Billy.

"You'll just yell at me again," said Karl.

"Oh, don't be such a wuss!" yelled Billy.

Almost immediately, he was in Karl's arms.

Karl gathered Billy to his chest. The multi-pocketed coat fell slightly open, and Billy's face was pressed against Karl's bare chest and perilously close to those hard, stiff nipples. Karl's hands were on Billy's jaw, his thumb jutting into Billy's chin from below. Billy hated that but this was no time to quibble about trivialities, let's just get lips on lips and tongues on tongues and, oh yes, that was much better.

Billy was starting to get used to Karl's kissing. After all, it had only been, what, thirty minutes at most that he had last kissed Karl, wetly, drowningly, so this kiss on dry land was already an improvement. Karl was wagging his head again, true, but Billy grabbed Karl's hair, pushing off the baseball cap, and stopped him wagging. Karl's wet, stringy hair. And Karl still stretched his mouth open as wide as if he were a chick waiting to be fed by its robin parent, but somehow even that had ceased to bother Billy, a minor triviality, after all. Karl's tongue exploring the space between Billy's teeth and gums didn't bother Billy, either, because Billy was too busy exploring himself.

Billy explored, very softly, very methodically. Showing Karl how he liked it done. Billy swam around Karl's mouth. His tongue was like a little fish in a new aquarium. He darted along Karl's teeth, just skimming their knobbled enamel crowns. He crawled across the top of Karl's tongue, plumbing the tiny pores and nipples on its surface. He savoured the deep groan coming from the back of Karl's throat. Billy had that shiver deep down in his guts again, and he forgot all about not liking guys, and all about not liking Karl Urban.

The kiss was different from the ones before. It wasn't as fraught and frenzied as those earlier ones. It wasn't kissing-as-fighting. It was as if all that shouting and punching and stomping about had cleared the air. Billy's tongue was less tied. Karl's tongue was less anxious. They were both settling into the kiss in a more comfortable way, taking their time about it. They were using the kiss to get to know each other, and that was a new departure, because they hadn't really tried to get to know each other before. Not really.

Karl might have been a terrible kisser but he was a very active kisser. There just seemed to be a lot do when kissing Karl, fending off Karl's tongue and holding Karl's head and clicking teeth and feeling Karl's fingers wriggle all over the place and Karl's groin pushing against the windcheater. Karl's naked groin, mind. Karl's cock didn't feel quite as tiny as it had looked earlier on the beach. In fact, things were hotting up nicely, Billy was hotting up, Karl's mouth was warming him up, as were Karl's hands on him, Karl's arms around him and Karl's body against him.

Karl was grunting again. Billy's grunt receptor responded without fail. Well, at least it was nice and predictable to have such a clockwork mechanism going. Maybe there was something to be said for Karl's grunting after all.

The kiss was definitely spreading outwards from their mouths. Karl's hands were getting more and more active, they were restless, they were restlessly roving, roving over Billy's windcheater-covered back, and then roving under the windcheater and over Billy's bare back, and then roving downwards and over Billy's goosepimpled, bare buttocks, cupping them and kneading them, Billy giving a little involuntary moan, and then the hands started roving again, roving to the front of Billy's body, over Billy's belly, kneading Billy's belly under the windcheater.

Then one hand roved around the front and the other hand roved around the back, and then one solitary finger did the roving on its own, and Billy cried out into Karl's mouth as this finger entered him from behind.

Karl stopped kissing. His finger stopped roving.

"Is that okay?" said Karl.

Billy nodded, open-mouthed.

That nod sealed his fate. Billy had the vertiginous feeling that that nod was definitely sealing his fate. That nod was conceding to something, and Billy was dimly aware that that something was only the thin end of the wedge. And who knew where he'd end up before the day was out. He was entering uncharted waters here, Captain Cook on the wild blue seas.

Billy had never ever had anything stuck up his arse before. Nobody had ever stuck anything up it, not a doctor, not a lover, not a suppository-wielding mum, not even himself in a moment of masturbatory recklessness. Sticking things up his arse had just never been a part of Billy's erotic repertoire, and now Karl was slowly but surely sticking his finger up Billy's arse. The sensation of Karl's finger up his arse filled Billy's head so completely that there was no space left for the kiss.

"Oh," moaned Billy.

Billy stopped kissing, he just left his mouth hanging open. But Karl continued to kiss with alacrity. Karl seemed able to juggle all manner of activities at the same time because not only did he continue kissing and continue inserting his finger but his other hand also continued roving. It roved all the way up and down Billy's chest and belly, it roved across his nipples, hard and stiff but no longer hard and stiff with cold, hard and stiff with something else, and then Karl's hand roved across Billy's pubic hair, scratched Billy's curly pubes and Billy's hard and stiff and springy dick. Billy felt the back of Karl's hand against the inward side of his hard dick, and one of the velcro-stripped, zipped pockets of Karl's coat dug into the outward side of his hard dick. Billy used his hand to pull away Karl's coat and, eureka, now the outward side of Billy's dick was touching the outward side of Karl's cock.

"Oh God," moaned Billy. And Karl was grunting something, too, Billy didn't hear what, Billy could only hear the blood boiling in his own ears.

Because Karl was tall, their cocks touched at different levels. The top of Billy's dick nudged the bottom of Karl's cock. Billy could feel Karl's hard balls, giving slightly against Billy's hard dick, and he could feel the moisture at the top of his dick smearing against Karl's cock. So Billy reached up, Billy stood on tiptoes to reach Karl's cock, he moved the top of his moist dick against Karl's cock, against the marvellous length and heat of Karl's cock. Karl bent his knees slightly for better access, and now Billy's dick was slithering along the shaft of Karl's cock. The slithering, plus Karl's tongue around his teeth, plus Karl's hand against his pubes, plus Karl's finger up his arse, was almost enough to send Billy to that Alpine meadow again.

In fact, the meadow was coming into view. Billy could make out the cow grazing in the distance. He could just about hear the first faint tinkle of the cow's bell and glimpse the blinding blue of that Alpine sky...

...when Karl suddenly spoke into Billy's ear, and this is what he said:

"I've got condoms. Shall I get them?"

"Con... What?" gulped Billy.

The meadow receded, the cow receded, the tinkling died away in Billy's ear. Billy's dick collapsed.

Billy's dick collapsed. It no longer touched the back of Karl's hand nor did it slither along Karl's cock. It retreated into itself in sheer terror. Billy's dick, in short, was not used to such propositions. And Billy's arse winced in sympathy, winced around Karl's finger.

"Don't worry," Karl said immediately. "Forget what I said."

He attempted to kiss Billy again but Billy pulled away. Billy looked at Karl. Karl's eyes were the darkest he had ever seen them. They had lost all their slittiness, they were large and round and drawn-out at the edges, like an Egyptian Pharaoh's eyes. They were moist, too, as moist as the top of Billy's dick, moist and wild.

"No," Billy said. It came out all funny and gasping. Only one short syllable yet Billy could barely pronounce it. "No. Get them."

That was it. Fate sealed for sure. With that 'no', Billy had banged the lid shut on his fate. Or rather, the lid was off. The lid was off whatever Pandora's box had so far held in such desires in Billy's brain and Billy's life. The lid had been yanked right off; it was floating somewhere on the merry waves of Marlborough Sounds, chewed up by passing orca whales, while Billy was preparing to lose his virtue and his virginity on the depraved shores of this southern land.

"Really?" said Karl, and if the blood hadn't been burbling in Billy's ears he might have noticed that Karl's voice was just as ragged and gasping as Billy's own. "Really? Okay."

Karl attempted to move off, but Billy held on. Karl attempted to pull his finger out but Billy clenched his rectum around it. So they performed a strange little walk, joined at the hips, towards Karl's bag. Karl bent down, Billy bent down; with his free hand, Karl scrabbled round in his bag for what seemed like forever, but Billy wouldn't let go to speed matters up.

All of Billy's earlier irritation and rage -- in fact, weeks and weeks of pent-up irritation with Karl -- seemed to have morphed into one overwhelmingly gripping urge to keep a hold of Karl. With every movement and every scrabbling round in the bag, Karl's finger pulsed in Billy's arse; and with every pulse in Billy's arse, Billy opened his mouth to produce a gasp-moan; and with every gasp-moan produced by Billy, Karl lost his balance somewhat and swayed, and all of these chain reactions just slowed down Karl's scrabblings even more.

After about seven decades of scrabbling and gasp-moaning and pulsing, Karl had found what he'd been scrabbling for. He dragged the items out of the bottom of the bag -- interesting, that they was at the bottom of the bag which meant that Karl must have packed these items first, before packing anything else, but this was a thought that only flitted briefly across Billy's brain. Karl dragged out the items, spilling towels and ziplock bags and sandwiches, binoculars and maps and suntan lotion, penknives, torches, chocolate tortes and five-course meals in the process.

They were both still half-bent, down on their haunches amid the innards of Karl's bags. Instead of straightening up, they lowered themselves further, until Karl was sitting in the sand and Billy was sitting in Karl's lap, and now their cocks and their balls were touching head-on, Billy's dick still small, still terrified, and Karl's cock huge, enormous, of epic proportions. Or so it seemed to Billy, now that he knew what was going to happen with it. At the thought of that huge, enormous, epically-proportioned cock inside him, Billy almost passed out.

Karl jolted him back to consciousness with a question:

"Shall I turn around?"

"What, turn around, why?" stammered Billy. "Oh, I see. But I thought that you..."

"I thought you didn't..."

Apparently, he wasn't going to have to suffer Karl's huge, enormous cock inside him. Apparently, things were going to be the other way round. Karl was going to turn around, and Billy was going to put the condom on, and there was going to be none of Karl's cock inside Billy.

"No, Karl," rasped Billy. He almost couldn't see Karl properly; he was having that optical problem again. "Just do it. You. Do it."

Fate sealed. Pandora's lid at the bottom of the Sounds, trampled by crabs, clawed by lobsters, poohed on by passing salmon.

And the strangest thing, the very strangest thing of all, was the shaft of disappointment that had shot through Billy's guts when Karl had suggested that it should be Billy doing the fucking. Of course, Billy didn't want to do the fucking, how preposterous. As if he'd want to stick his nice clean dick into Karl's filthy, hairy arsehole. Of course he didn't want to do that. Of course not.

Only, that wasn't the real reason. That didn't even come near being the real reason. He might as well face up to it: Billy just wanted to be fucked. He hadn't even known until five seconds earlier that he wanted to be fucked but he did. He was desperate to be fucked. He wanted Karl's huge, enormous, epically-proportioned cock up his arse. He didn't know why, because it was a revolting idea, it was a repulsive and ridiculous idea, it wasn't at all what Billy liked, Billy who'd never had so much as a Q-tip up his arse, but there it was.

Billy wanted to be fucked by Karl Urban.

At any rate, Billy couldn't have done any fucking himself. Not the way he was at the moment. His dick was still small with terror. And Billy's chest was constricted with breath-stopping fear. But all that terror was shooting adrenaline through Billy's body, shooting adrenaline into Billy's brain and into his arse and making Billy gasp at Karl.

"Do it, Karl. Do it."

"Billy," said Karl, in a voice so deep it was virtually inaudible because it was of the same wavelength as the hoot of a steamboat somewhere miles away. If Billy had been at all _compos mentis_ , he might have noticed that Karl was himself nearly out of his mind with adrenaline, that Karl was cross-eyed with lust, that Karl could barely speak and could barely rip the packet open with shaking, quivering, useless fingers and could barely manage to roll the condom over his own cock. Billy was too terrified to help with any of this; he rested on Karl's lap, mouth open, eyes half-closed, atremble with apprehension.

"We need some..." said Karl, and started scrabbling again. Billy had no will left to wonder what other marvels were hidden in that bottomless bag of Karl's, or why Karl had packed all these items in the first place, and with what ulterior hopes and motives Karl had in fact undertaken this boat trip, motives which went way beyond rowing or fishing, unless maybe Billy had been the fish all along. And now Billy was captured and writhing helplessly at the end of Karl's huge, enormous hook.

Karl had found something, some container or other, and Karl was doing something, something to his cock and then something to Billy's arse, something slimy and smeary, something slithery. Karl whispered, "Billy, you're so open, I can't believe how open you are, Billy, Billy..." And then Billy, without having to be asked or told, lifted himself up and onto his knees, knees scrunching into sand, and lifted himself onto Karl's cock. Karl had his hands on Billy's buttocks. He was spreading Billy's buttocks and pulling them apart. Billy, still terrified to the core but unable to stop himself, lowered his body. Karl let go one hand and took hold of his own cock, using his hand to guide his cock into Billy.

And then there was only Karl.

Karl was there. He was really there. He was inside Billy, at first only a bit, then a bit more, then a lot, then all of Karl, all of Karl in his huge, enormous, epic proportions. The whole act was taking on epic proportions. There was nothing else left, no space left for anything else, for any other thought, no space to direct any other part of his body to do anything. Even Billy's brain stem seemed to have been taken over by this one thing, even Billy's vegetative responses. It was all just Karl's cock up Billy's arse.

But then it turned out that Billy did have some responses left. He had muscular responses left in his thighs, they managed to move Billy's body up and down on Karl. And he had vascular responses left in his dick, responses that pumped blood into his dick, making his dick twitch and grow, grow to be huge and enormous and of epic proportions.

Or that's what it felt like.

Karl's hand closed around Billy's dick. Billy's head sank forward onto Karl's shoulder.

It was unbelievable. It was inconceivable. Yet it was happening. Karl fucking Urban fucking Billy.

Karl was pumping Billy's dick, and he was doing it all wrong again. But there was no space left in Billy's brain to stop and tell Karl how to do it. And then that, too, turned out to be a minor inconvenience. Karl's thumb was all wrong, Karl's speed all wrong, Karl's pressure round Billy's shaft all wrong... Didn't matter, because there was nothing wrong with Karl's cock in Billy's arse, absolutely fucking nothing. Karl's cock in his arse felt so right that it made Billy fly away, fly away to outer space. It made him fly to such a far-away space that he didn't even feel Karl's hand around his dick any more, nor did he hear Karl's grunting, nor did he take in Karl's tongue on his face, roving aimlessly in aimless spirals across Billy's cheeks and chin.

Because Billy was transported. Not to an Alpine meadow this time. No, the Alpine meadow was left so fucking far behind it wasn't funny, and its pathetic moo cow now seemed piteously inapt. Billy was somewhere else entirely, somewhere hot and red, could have been Mars, could have been Hell, it was a red-hot place, a heedless place, a place full of subterranean rumbling. It was a vast space, red and hot, with a horizon rimmed in tongues of flame. Something was approaching from that horizon. Billy rode up and down on Karl, he rode up and down on Karl who was a bison again, galloping across that vast red place, and as they were galloping, they were drawing nearer and nearer to the horizon and to that something approaching. Billy didn't know what that something was, some huge beast, or a wall of fire, or a rumbling roaring earthquake, or a swirling whirling dust storm. He didn't care, he just galloped on, faster and faster, and slicker and slicker, until Karl the bison bucked underneath him, reared up and bellowed, and then the something was upon them both.

It crashed about their ears, it blew right through them, hot and dry. It picked them up and flung them about until the breath was knocked out of their lungs, and the moisture squeezed from their eyeballs, and the strength sucked out of their muscles, and the semen shot out of their cocks, out of their hot, hard cocks, hot wet semen, semen everywhere.

Well.

There was a sound in Billy's left ear, not of an approaching dust storm, no, that red-hot place had receded. Billy was back on the New Zealand beach, and Karl was groaning something into his left ear. It sounded like 'Blublublu', and it took Billy a few seconds to figure out what Karl was saying. Karl was saying, "Billy, Billy, Billy." And biting Billy's ear and breathing on Billy's neck and licking Billy's jaw. And then looking at him. Karl looked at Billy, and Billy looked at Karl, and no doubt about it, Karl looked gorgeous.

He looked as if he'd come apart at the edges, all his outlines were slightly smudged and bleeding into the surroundings. His lips were cerise, his hair matted and black, his cheeks blobs of nectarine, his eyes a mess.

"Hmm," Billy said and kissed his bison-Karl.

This was their fourth kiss, and the loveliest one so far. It was neither frenzied nor fighting nor getting-to-know-each-other. This was a kiss of two people who knew each other already, or at least who knew a certain place in each other, a certain red-hot place that they'd never visited before, an intimate red-hot place of their own. And now they could remember that place through their mouths and their tongues. Lazy tongues, spent mouths.

"Billy," breathed Karl.

"Karl," said Billy.

"I've been wanting to do this," Karl said, still breathing hard. "I've been thinking about doing this. You have no idea how often. I thought... From the moment I first saw you, that day in Christchurch... " -- Billy couldn't remember any day in Christchurch but this was not the moment to mention such trivia -- "From the moment I first saw you, I knew you'd be a hot lay. I just knew it. And you are. Billy, Billy, you are."

"How could you know any such thing?" asked Billy, breathlessly. "I didn't know any such thing."

"I don't know. There was just something about you. You were always laughing and being jolly, and I love that, I do, that's why I fell in love with you. But there was something else as well, underneath the other stuff."

"I thought you weren't in love with me any more," Billy said.

"Oh, I didn't really mean that," muttered Karl, sounding almost embarrassed. "I was just annoyed. Billy, will you come to my place after?"

"I don't know," said Billy.

"Will you stay the night?"

"Well," said Billy and squirmed on Karl's lap. "I don't think I'd better."

"Why not?" asked Karl. "Why hadn't you better? What is not better about staying the night at my place?"

Billy didn't know what to answer.

"Is it because you had something planned with Dom?" said Karl.

Dom. The syllable sounded like a word from a foreign language.

"Oh," said Billy. "Yes. That's true. I did have something arranged with Dom tonight."

Billy thought of Dom. He had arranged something with Dom earlier that day. He remembered arranging it and looking forward to it as his reward after this day of trials and tribulations. He had arranged a nice evening meeting, and Billy knew exactly how the evening would go: Dom would appear, with Orli in tow. They'd both be hyped up to the gills. They'd both be talking a mile a minute, explicating, triplicating, pontificating. It would be para-this and para-that and altitudes of planes and velocities of falls and parabolas of flight and opening-times of parachutes, and landing methods, rolling or sliding or somersaulting. There'd be beer, and then more beer, and then more parachuting exploits, and there'd be acting out of incidents on the living room floor. There'd be wrestlings and gropings; there'd be lewd jokes. But there'd be no sex.

In fact, it would be a crashing bore of an evening.

It occurred to Billy that sex was better than no sex, and that no sex was a bore, and that no sex plus parachuting pontificating was even more of a bore, and that an entire evening of no sex and no Karl was the biggest bore of them all.

"On second thoughts," said Billy, "it's a fairly loose arrangement. I can cancel it."

"Really? You can cancel it? Are you sure?"

"Yep, absolutely. Dom and Orli will just want to talk to each other about parachuting. I don't care about parachuting."

"Really? Dom won't mind?"

"No," Billy said. In fact, he was sure of it. Dom wouldn't mind. Dom would, possibly, not even notice. Dom would think, oh Karl, great guy, yes, go and stay with Karl. And possibly, for once, Dom would be right.

"Dom won't mind," Billy said. "Dom won't even care."

Karl beamed.

"But you have to do one thing," said Billy.

"What's that?"

"No, two things," said Billy. He gave Karl a dreamy look and draped his arms around Karl's neck.

"What?" said Karl. "You know I'll do anything."

"One: you have to fuck me again," said Billy.

"Okay," said Karl and beamed.

"And two: you have to tell me all about fishing."

"About fishing?"

"Yes," said Billy and nestled contentedly into Karl's lap. "You have to tell me all about fishing, in the Sounds and in whatever rivers you go to, and all about the tides and the seasons and the fish you've caught, the bass and the salmon and the pooky fish."

"Hapuku."

"Yeah, those, too. Whatever. Will you do that?"

"Of course," said Karl. "I'd love to talk to you about fishing. I didn't know you were that interested."

"I don't yet know if I am," said Billy. "But I'd like to find out."

\--------------

The End.

29 May 2002

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